Coffee and Conversation
Regardless of how weird the other night was, as well as the events following, he had gone through the rest of the day looking forward to the next morning. When it came he was up at his usual time, long before the others to get in his routine run; something he had missed in favor of walking the red-head out of the base. After a quick shower he threw on some jeans, a plain white shirt and his leather jacket--ma always did say it made him look like a greaser—then headed out to his car.
There was nothing real fancy about the plain gun-metal gray vehicle. It was a lemon, actually, one he decided to use around the base instead of bringing one of his babies from home. It ran, had a working radio, and the interior was in one piece. It was comfortable enough to sit in for the next half hour as he waited for her to arrive.
Eventually he climbed back out, not only because it would be difficult to tell which car was his if he was inside, but because he started to feel a bit of restlessness that was eased only by a cigarette. And so he sat upon the hood, one foot propped against the fender as he fought with a lighter that was too stubborn for its own good.
